The Sounding
by sad little tiger
Summary: There is always pleasure in the pain.


AN/Warning: Hardcore BDSM. Strange acts.

* * *

><p><strong>Being your slave, what should I do but tend <strong>

**Upon the hours and times of your desire? **

**I have no precious time at all to spend, **

**Nor services to do till you require. **

**~ William Shakespeare**

* * *

><p>2008.<p>

"Do you know the distance between this room and that building?"

"Uh... no. But I can find out if you want, Ms. Valentine. It's only a matter of -"

"Is this glass reinforced?" She knocked on the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the bed.

"Well, um, it's tempered and two inches thick. It's weatherproof. Earthquake safe."

She nodded. Her delicate hands were clasped behind her back; she walked around the spacious penthouse suite almost lazily, looking up and down. She made him very nervous.

There was a distinct air of... danger about her. The questions she asked did not help.

The manager stared at the high neck of something underneath the trench coat she wore. It almost looked like a collar. Four metal rings gleaming in the light as she played with the dimmer.

"He's quite demanding." She spoke softly then.

She pushed open the door to the bath. Jacuzzi tub, stand-alone shower - large enough for an orgy, jets covering the walls like the saunas he was so fond of. The tile was flecked with mica.

"But this looks suitable. Was the mattress delivered today? Did you keep the packing receipt as I asked?"

The man mumbled a _yes_ and pulled a folded-up copy of the slip from his pocket.

When she'd called a month before, she'd given explicit instructions about the needs of this client - his own mattress, complete privacy, at least three possible exits, new bed clothes, several new bath sheets, and a four-poster king-sized bed frame.

She turned to him, pulling off the black leather gloves. The balding manager watched, wide-eyed.

"At exactly o-one hundred, I want a warm mocha, heavy on the half-and-half, stirred with a cinnamon stick which should be left on a folded cloth napkin next to the mug. Your man should be directed not to knock - just leave it within reach of the door on a platter with handles. Not a minute before o-one hundred, not a second later. Remember that mocha - _warmed_, not hot. Do we understand?"

The manager was writing down her request frantically, his brow dripping with sweat.

"He will be arriving in-" She looked at her smartphone. "12 minutes, 24 seconds. Be ready. And for God's sake, don't make eye contact."

* * *

><p>The French doors slammed behind him.<p>

She bit her lip.

The closet was open in the master bedroom. She eyed the outfits inside, hanging up, waiting. Personas. Aliases. Jills of Yore.

She had not seen him for a week. He had been working hard. She had been working harder. Uroboros was almost ready. It was difficult to get away, she knew.

Though she couldn't be sure of which man/god/monster she'd get that night.

_All part of the thrill, isn't it?_ she asked herself.

The P30 made her do a lot of things.

The P30 couldn't make her wet though.

That was all _him_.

Briefly, her conscious complained. _What would Chris think of me? _

Then, _Nothing matters but Wesker._

And as easy as that, the P30 won... again.

* * *

><p>He was slumped in the fauteuil. Sunglasses set on the table.<p>

The parlor of the suite was dark.

She saw his eyes, like two coals, in the shadows. His phone in his hands, his thumb on the scrolling ball, the light blue on his face. Their work unending.

His energy was weak; his aura pale.

She could feel _that_, she knew _that_ because of the P30. Through the drug, they were of one mind, one spirit.

Despite herself, despite the hate and fear and the years of torment, she pitied him.

"What would you like tonight? The schoolgirl?"

(Plaid skirt, knee socks, clunky shoes, no bra, no panties - complete with frightened blue eyes, falsified innocence, and feigned virginity)

He said nothing, continued to type.

"S.T.A.R.S.?"

(Traditional uniform, shoulder pads, beret, and boring undergarments to add to the realness of taking The Original Jill Valentine)

That got a raised eyebrow, but no bite.

"B.S.A.A.?"

(All straps and ties and espionage with the actual bloodied ball cap - finished off with a shitty attitude, plenty of fight, and the "rape-like" screams he adored)

The screen of the phone went black as he clicked the sleep button. He set it next to the sunglasses.

She waited for his answer.

Finally, his full attention was turned to her.

"Leave on what you are wearing, Jill."

It'd been one of _those_ weeks.

She stopped herself from smiling.

She had figured he'd need The Battlesuit.

Naturally - he'd spent the past seven days with Excella.

* * *

><p>She opened The Black Bag.<p>

Touched familiar and not-so-familiar things.

She ran her fingers over the cat-o-nine-tails.

A favorite of his.

It didn't call to her. Not tonight.

In fact, none of their regular toys appealed to her that evening.

Except for the collar.

Custom, of course.

A beautiful latigo leather posture piece.

Single D-ring on the throat.

No tasteless studs or spikes. No cutesy names stitched across the front – no _bitch_, no _slave_, no _beauty_.

It had been a secret gift to her on what would have been her thirty-third birthday.

Jill set the collar in the center of the bed, her fingertips trailing over the suede lining almost lovingly.

She stared into the bag, smiling.

"Something new for me?" He purred, behind her.

She turned, blocking his view. "Yes. A surprise."

He narrowed his eyes, pupils shrinking to a reptilian slit. "How thoughtful of you."

His suspicion was good.

It got her hot.

Wesker moved slowly, unbuckling the holsters at each arm, slipping them off. He laid the weapons on the bedside table and began unzipping his shirt. Such heavy resistant material. He tugged it from the waist of his pants.

He watched Jill watching him, working the fingers of his gloves off, letting them fall to the floor with his shirt.

His boots and pants followed.

And then the briefs.

All the while they stared at each other.

There was an uneasiness about them – not just Wesker's usual surliness, not only Jill's typical paranoia.

He stood in the nude... and he waited.

"Do you... want to check the restraints?" She looked away, turned the comforter down.

He walked around the bed then, pulling on each rope, keeping his eyes on Jill.

Testing the strength of the ties... testing her.

She clasped her hands behind her back - patient as he inspected her work.

"They feel adequate." His approval.

Jill nodded, the arch of her back casting an elegant sihouette on the farthest wall.

"The candles are soothing," he said, glancing around.

She nodded again, solemn.

He was stalling.

Their attention fell to the collar between them.

"Do you want me to put it on?" She asked. Her voice was husky, _excited_.

His jaw tightened at the suggestion. "No. I'd prefer to do it myself."

He picked it up, rubbing the stiff leather between his fingers, feeling the weight of it in his hands, understanding the power he held.

She stood on the other side of the bed, staring. Impassive.

Somehow imposing.

He nearly trembled as he lifted it... and tightened it around his own creamy throat.

* * *

><p>Wesker adored a binding that was uncomfortably firm.<p>

A lesser man... any other man, might need a gentler touch, perhaps some reassurance.

But he wasn't a lesser man – he wasn't a man at all.

He was above all other men; he was ascended.

And she bound him to the bed like Prometheus to the rock.

"Don't make a sound," she warned.

He watched her work, greedy shining eyes.

Jill wrenched his hand up to the post, looped the coarse rope around his wrist twice, yanking, hurting him as she began to draw and quarter.

His lip twitched.

She bound the next wrist to the other post. And then his feet.

On the final tie, she pulled the rope taut. It bit into the delicate skin, rubbed the bones of his right ankle.

He winced – it burned.

She grabbed his face, held him still. "Don't you fucking _snarl_. Look at me." She jerked his chin. "Look... at... me."

His chest was already heaving. The thin blond hair on his sternum shone in the candlelight. His gaze, slow, moved up to her face.

"Apologies... Ms. Valentine."

Her moods swung like a pendulum. As suddenly as she'd become ferocious, she became soft and hazy.

She went back to the dresser, went back to The Black Bag.

He strained to see her, over his pale feet, over the lip of the painful collar, his shoulders pulling on the bindings. He felt them loosen a bit and stopped.

The restraints were an illusion of course – part of their game. In reality, he was as ungovernable as the wind.

She chose something and returned to the bedside.

Jill climbed up, her eyes on his, a unplacable sadness in them.

She straddled his chest and licked her lips – the lower so full and wet it made him hard.

He relished the feel of her thighs around his ribs.

"I have something new for you."

He watched her hands. Patient.

She held it up.

Leather straps and two rings. A red ball in the center.

A gag.

His countenance fell. He slipped from the submissive role. "No."

"I think you need this."

"I think you ought not to make presumptions about my needs, Jill." Bristling.

He didn't even realize what had happened until his cheek stung.

She stared down on him, immovable.

He glowered. His face was warm – he knew her palm must be smarting.

"Open your mouth."

Wesker swallowed.

And parted his lips.

"Wider."

He obeyed, his jaw almost creaking with reluctance.

She worked the rubber ball between his teeth, careful not to pinch the corners of his mouth.

"Head up."

He lifted himself for her hands, slipping beneath and working on the clasp.

She sat back, her thighs tightening maddeningly around him. She tucked stray strands of white hair behind her ear.

And she looked at him.

Really drank him in.

He watched her breathing grow shallow as she stared down at her work.

Saliva built up behind the ball. His tongue felt the acrid rubber; an intense tingling, a very specific and overwhelming smell. It drown out nearly all of his other senses.

He lived there, in the restraints, behind the gag, her weight on him. Everything focused. Reduced to a completely physical existance.

His fingers wound around the ropes and he felt the safest he had in days, bound and beneath her.

She watched the change in him, the fear and the subsequent relief, and eased the zipper of her suit down.

The lovely hillocks of her breasts were exposed then – snowy, pale, soft.

The metal teeth of the zipper bit into them; they strained for escape.

He breathed hard, steady, through his nose. Nostrils flared as he watched the garment _peel_ off her.

His teeth sank into the red ball.

She let the zipper find it's way to her navel, and then a few inches more – the delectable strip of skin down the middle of her chest, her ribs, her belly, on display.

For_ him_.

She noted, with pride, his fingers tightening around the ropes until his knuckles were white with effort.

Her hand reached down, tentative. She let her fingers hover just above his face, debating. And then she ran her thumb down the bridge of his nose – one of his sharp, dangerous edges.

But in the candlelight, in the deep night, it was gentle and sloping under her touch, like the rest of him.

_Willing._

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned into her hand, nuzzling. She cradled the cheek she'd abused.

Jill sighed at his desperation.

"Do you know how you look?" She whispered. "Do you know what a sad beautiful whore you are?"

He went lax at the word _whore_. One of his favorites.

And she pulled her hand away, wrenched it back, as if she'd cut herself on him.

His eyes opened then... pupils enormous.

Everything about him betrayed his arousal.

She moved, crawling off him, off the bed.

"I know what you're doing. You want me to be weak for you." She spoke cruelly to him, her hand back in The Black Bag. "I'll _never_ be weak for you."

He glared, trying to steady his breathing under the gag, trying to get air despite the stiff tight collar that kept his chin up.

"I have something else for us."

He pulled up, the restraints loosening under his power. He watched her approach the bed again.

Jill could feel the intensity of his gaze on the velvet case in her hands.

She came from his feet where the ropes burned.

He watched her – shoulders rounding, back swayed, ass in the air as she poured herself on him like some jungle cat in heat.

She knelt between his spread legs, showing him what she had. "Do you know what this is?"

He stared, a struggle with the damned collar. The rise and fall of his chest increased, picked up.

She began to unzip the case. Slow. "I went... to a specialist for this... I told him that I needed something heavier... something that would take a _whore_ like you higher."

Nostrils flared again and she saw the panic building in him.

"He said these would be perfect... and he's always right." She went on, casual, as she worked the little zipper around the final curve.

Her thigh was against his – and she felt the throbbing of his terrified heart there.

She opened the case, looking down. So calm.

Wesker grunted.

"Do you want to see what I have for you?" She asked.

He nodded as best he could, eyes darting between her face and what she held.

She presented it to him.

The telling pink flush drained from his face, his chest, and with it, the hardness of his cock.

He shook his head, violently, but he didn't break the restraints.

He still played the game with her.

Jill stared at his flagging erection – something so removed about her. She was a statue.

"Do you know what these are?" Her voice almost taunting.

He glared at her, his teeth bared. As he breathed, deep and ragged around the horrible gag, he salivated – nervously. His own spit wetting his lips, pulled so tight around the wretched red ball.

She watched him; the flurry of his expressions, his impotent emotions, the way he literally frothed.

"These are Pratt urethral sounds."

She ran her fingers over the instruments in the velvet case, her head tilting first to the left, then the right. Thoughtful.

Teasing.

Finally, she settled on one – brought it out for him to see.

The polished metal rod gleamed and glittered in the light of the little flames all around them.

It had a beautiful, if slight, _s_ shape. A gentle and horrifying eleven-inch curve.

"It's heavy," she remarked, weighing it with her fingers. "Very smooth."

Jill ran the rod along his leg, letting him feel the coolness, the seamless perfection of it.

"If we play our cards right, you could get one all the way to your bladder."

She ran it to his groin, her wicked, blank eyes on him as he winced.

"Oh, don't be afraid... Shhh..."

He tried, unsuccesfully, to turn his head away. The lip of the posture collar prevented him.

"He showed me how to use it, so don't worry about that..." She paused. "I practiced on _him_... Generous, to volunteer himself... don't you think?"

He groaned – a miserable, small sound.

Her attention went back to his flaccid cock. "I'm glad you aren't... _up_. We can't insert these when you're hard."

He inhaled sharply.

His eyes were fearful and wide; his brows knitting together with concern.

"I'm told that when you _do_ get hard though - around this..." She admired the length of silver. "It's apparently the most amazing thing you'll ever feel... Now how did he describe it before he came in my hand..."

Wesker threw his head back, arching and yanking on the restraints just enough to shake the bed.

She smiled. "Right. _Exquisite torment._"

He was panting then, the saliva dripping down his chin. He couldn't be bothered to care. His stomach tightened so that it hurt.

Jill looked at him, suddenly serious. "Are you ready?"

He shook his head, vehement. The moaning again from behind the gag.

"I don't think I can wait. You have no idea how you look... You're so fucking beautiful like this..." Breathless.

As she spoke to him, soft little threats, she eased the zipper on her suit down, past the mound of her sex. She worked her fingers into the material and began stroking, circling, and finally, pushed them inside of herself.

Jill let her back curve, mewling. She stopped, and showed him.

"See?"

Wet.

His eyelashes fluttered like gold leaf in the candlelight.

She saw the war waged in him.

And she saw his defeat.

His entire body relaxed, even his hands, tangled in the binding rope.

He would give himself over to her now – without incident.

She smiled again.

* * *

><p>The surgical lubricant was thick and greasy on the rod.<p>

Jill gently rubbed the head of his cock with sticky fingertips, working a bit of the jelly into him.

Wesker wheezed at the new sensation – cold, slick.

He remained soft despite her touch, mortal terror keeping him passive. His eyes followed her every move, unblinking and red. His breath had all but ceased.

She took the sound in her hand, slow and deliberate. "Stay very still."

The tip of the rod was poised at his head.

His thighs were made of stone.

"Breathe," she chided. "Relax for me."

She carefully pushed.

The rod slipped a few millimeters in. A fraction of an inch.

Wesker snorted in a lungful of air. His feet tugged at the ropes.

He moaned once – long and low.

She rubbed his groin, reassuring, while her other hand held the rod and his cock upright. "You're alright... you're okay."

Jill waited until the tension in his legs had abated – the rigidity finding a new home in his curled toes.

"I'm going to give you more now."

The fear rose in him again, and he began to whimper.

But she'd already started feeding the sound into his urethra.

* * *

><p>At an inch, he was still fighting with her – with himself. His expression volleyed between shock and pain, and then anger. But he allowed her to persist.<p>

At three inches, he was making the gutteral sounds that she so loved – sounds from the very depths of his being. Noises of a man who didn't care, a man who was giving up completely to what he needed.

At six inches, he grew fuzzy and weak, his legs shivering, fingers clenching and releasing... clenching and releasing.

And at eight inches, she drenched her hand in the sterile, watery lubricant and began working him.

* * *

><p>When he was hard – swollen and pulsing in a way he'd never been – she touched the very end of the rod with their vibrator... and held it.<p>

The metal hummed pleasantly.

He arched and stayed there, silent in his agony.

She knew when he was truly on the verge, he didn't make a sound. He told her with his body.

Jill sighed, lips parted. Her heart beat as loudly and passionately as his.

He watched her gaze – first on his aching, impaled cock, then drawn up his body, pausing on the rise and fall of his chest, and finally resting on his face.

The red ball was still wedged between his teeth, his chin and the collar wet with his own spit. His face, his chest – blushed deep pink again.

And his eyes.

Heavy-lidded, so utterly sad and exhausted...

Tears were shining on his skin, his long golden lashes matted with them.

He was weeping for her, crying like a child.

It made her weak.

He always managed to make her weak.

She crouched down then, held his painful arousal and began licking the underside, ignoring the bitter taste of the lube, acting only on need.

Suckling, nibbling, lapping – all around his cock. Below, on the tip, up the veiny shaft.

The rod protruded from the head obscenely, and she held it up so that he stood out straight from his belly, straight from the coarse blond hair that trailed navel to cock.

He sobbed and twisted in the bindings, everything left in him wrenched and stripped away.

And then he climaxed – his body contracting so deeply, so painfully, as it tried to force the cum out around the sound.

She kept milking and squeezing, aiding and prolonging.

His vision went black for several seconds.

The last thing he saw was Jill's mouth; her lips dewy with his cum, her tongue worrying around tickling silver rod still lodged inside him.

* * *

><p>"Well, I almost killed you that time, didn't I?"<p>

Wesker was soft again, and the rod slipped from him easily.

She laid it on a clean towel and began undoing the restraints.

She smiled as she moved around the corners of the bed – he just stayed where he was. No movement, no stirring, none of the usual rubbing of wrists and ankles as the immortal skin repaired itself.

He was too tired.

She looked at his eyes, her hand resting on his cheek, turning his face to her.

He could barely keep them open.

_You poor thing..._

"I need you to get on your knees, hands behind your back." She stepped away, found the lavender wingback chair in the corner, sat daintily.

And spread her legs.

Her hand snaked down her front, easing into the suit again.

Wesker obeyed her order, catching himself as he fell over, finally pushing up to kneel on the bed. He shook his head to clear it and reached to touch the ball in his mouth.

"Don't you _dare_." Hard and angry. "Hands behind your fucking back. _Now."_

She heard him take a deep breath and then he slowly straightened his shoulders and back, his arms crossing at the wrists just above his ass.

His profile was stunning – the fine features of his half-shaded face, the wide black collar that kept him so regal, the way his bare feet looked graceful and soft. She lazily rubbed her clit as she watched him.

She moaned, throaty, and his amber eyes sought her.

"Don't. Just stay... stay like that." Breathy as she took herself higher. "Don't look at me."

His jaw tensed.

Jill came, almost shyly. A kittenish cry at the end of her pleasure.

That was all.

She'd been weak enough as it was.

She wouldn't give him any more.

Nothing more.

* * *

><p>Jill poured water and rose petals through her hands as she washed his hair.<p>

She smiled, absently stroking him. "They think we're on our honeymoon."

Wesker opened one cat eye and looked up at her. "Charming."

He pulled himself to sitting, the water rushing off of him, rippling around them.

She let her thighs relax, lay against the sides of tub.

His knees came to his chest. He buried his face, and she used the sea sponge on his back.

"I worked you hard tonight."

"Hmm..." He couldn't muster much more of a reply.

"Did you like it?"

He said nothing.

She squeezed the sponge. His answer was _yes_.

The steam floated up around them.

She closed her eyes in the heat, her hand still washing.

This was how they came down. Every time.

And when it was done, they would slide back into place like a finely tuned machine.

Back to the strictness of their _other_ master-slave relationship.

In that relationship, Jill was the slave.

The P30 said so.

But for tonight, maybe... the P30 could be overlooked.

* * *

><p>Wesker sipped the warm mocha and scrolled through the thirty-two e-mails he'd gotten since he'd fallen into bed with her.<p>

_From: E. Gionne_

_To: A. Wesker_

_Subject: _

_Cc:_

_Bcc:_

_Your old friend was on CNN tonight. Take care of that problem before I have to._

_I miss playing with you already. Tell me you miss me too, lovey._

_E._

Wesker frowned.

He set the Blackberry facedown on the side table and rubbed his eyes.

* * *

><p>She turned over, saw him just standing in the moonlight.<p>

Her wet hair was piled messily on top of her head and she was topless.

She grabbed the sheets and pulled them up around herself.

He looked at her.

And he crawled in.

She was alarmed – he never slept, certainly not with her.

They stared at each other.

"Just for tonight... I can't go back yet." He whispered.

She blinked and nodded.

"Just for tonight," he told himself.

She hoped he wouldn't make a habit of it.

She hoped he would.

Just for the night, they slept together.


End file.
